


Whiskey Regret

by daynight



Series: Telegraph Avenue [3]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Record Store, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 03:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3365903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daynight/pseuds/daynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liebgott asks a favour and Nixon makes a decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey Regret

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own charas, no offence at all meant to real guys, based on TV not real life

Joe Liebgott took the train from Berkeley to San Francisco with a clear goal in his head but no idea about a successful outcome. He leaned back in his seat, rolling his head against his shoulders, building rushing past and blurring his eyes. Anticipation and nerves thrummed through his veins, threatening to disturb his cool veneer. Tapping his foot, he hoped it would work. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Jesus, what the hell are you doing here?" 

Nixon was still in his bathrobe, his face screwed up in the glaring sunlight. It was 1 in the afternoon, not exactly the crack of dawn. His landlord had never been one for mornings. 

"Hey,” Joe gave him an abbreviated version of his famous smirk. "You busy?" Sighing, Nixon ran a hand through his messy hair. He had heavy stubble and even heavier bags under his eyes. 

"Come in." He stepped away from the door and floppily gestured into his living room area, resigned.

Liebgott stepped into Nixon’s fashionable, modern apartment, letting out a low whistle. "Nice place."

"Yeah, yeah." Nixon settled into an armchair in the corner of the room, thankfully keeping his bathrobe covering his dignity. 

"What do you want so urgently that you've come all the way up here? I'm not lowering your rent, before you ask." Liebgott had the good grace to look hesitant, kicking at Nixon's plush carpet with his scuffed leather boots. 

"That ain't it."

"Is Babe okay?" 

"Yeah he's doing really well. " Liebgott seemed fascinated with his shoes, an uneasy air settling. Nixon grew slightly concerned. Liebgott was mostly sensible when it counted, but his hot temper could create instances of mess and destruction, which usually proved to hit Nixon where it hurt, his wallet.

"You haven't burnt the shop down, have you?"

"Nah, it's fine. Business is good." 

Nixon felt awash with both relief and confusion. They waited in silence for a bit before Joe decided to break it. 

"I want to start the band up again." More silence. Nixon pinched the top of his nose, expression as if he had been struck. He shook it off and looked beseechingly at Liebgott.

"Do you want a drink?" 

"No, thanks."

Nixon shrugged and got up, going to his desk. There was a fancy carafe, half filled with an amber brown liquid next to his messy papers, looking far more handled than any of the actual work. He cautiously filled a glass, took a generous sip and turned back to Liebgott, brows knitted.

"Why? I mean, you were pretty much completely given up on it."

It was Liebgott's turn to shrug. 

"Maybe I gave up too easily." Nixon snorted. There was no such thing as giving up too easily. 

"Have you spoken to the others?" 

"Not yet, just you." He looked so sincere, jarring against his usual indifference. That kind of sincerity just reminded Nixon of every regret he ever had, many of which were inexplicably tangled up with that damn band. 

Nixon made an ambiguous groaning sound. 

"I don't know, Joe." 

 

* * *

 

 

Liebgott was bitter on the train home. How could someone go from a position of such optimism to complete complacency? No one had loved the band or the label the way Lewis Nixon had, always pushing them for greatness. It was shameful. True, he had been the same, so resigned, but recently the need to change, to persevere was becoming more apparent. This couldn't be the end, not for him, not for the band and not for Nixon either. They had to get out of this goddamn depressing slump. Liebgott resolved to change tactics. If he couldn't get Nixon to care, he knew someone who could.

Nixon's mobile rang. He ignored it. It rang again and he reluctantly padded over to where it resided, face down on his glass coffee table, seldom touched. A grinning, toothy man lit up the screen, forcing a smile from Nixon despite himself. 

"Harry! How are you? What's the occasion?" 

Harry Walsh had been a good friend to Nixon in Berkeley, remaining whilst other more painful relationships had collapsed. He owned the coffee shop down the road from the record store with his wife, Kitty. He had been a constant companion on many drunken escapades.

"Lewis, my man! I'm great! How are you?" A wry smile. 

"I've been better. What're you calling about?" 

"Not gonna ask after Kitty and the shop?"

"God, sorry, how rude. How are they both?"

"Great, great!" Nixon found himself nodding enthusiastically, forgetting Harry couldn’t see him. "Actually, Liebgott came in the other day." 

"Ugh, that little troublemaker." Nixon’s mouth twisted up fondly. Despite everything, he did like Liebgott. Damn, he was the one who scouted him in the first place.

"He is a shit, isn't he?" Harry chuckled, a warm sound. "He mentioned that he'd come up to see you." The innocuous statement was heavy with meaning and Nixon clocked on immediately. 

"Ah, that. Don't tell me you've been recruited? Is that how easy you are, Welsh, one nice smile from a charming young man and you've signed up to betray me?" Harry laughed again.

"Who said anything about betraying you? I just think, you know, it wouldn't be such a bad idea. God knows you miss it." Nixon rubbed his face, pacing his carpet.

"No I don't." His flat tones sounded dead and rehearsed.

"You're a terrible liar. What are you even doing in San Francisco apart from getting drunk on daddy's dollars?" Ouch. That stung a little. 

"No, I've got things going on here." He had to reassure himself. "Good things. Great things." Truth being that things weren't realistically that good. Nixon was beginning to see his bountiful resources thin. 

"He misses you, you know." No, no, he definitely couldn't cope with that. He voiced as much.

"No."

“I know he misses you. That man may seem perfect but he’s stubborn as hell. He’d never admit it, but he does.” Jesus Christ. A cold sweat prickled at his skin. He felt his temple, pulsing underneath his fingertips. He was edging towards panic. Harry seemed to take his distressed silence as a signal to keep going, to keep pushing at things that Nixon had tried to put away forever.

"You're both as stubborn as each other." 

Nixon didn't think he was stubborn. Quite the opposite, he had seen for himself the way his resolve could rapidly crumble. 

"I'm not. I mean." A deep sigh. A grimace. "I mean, do you still see him?" He shook his head, trying to dislodge any foolish hope that may still remain. Despite the cynicism, he was still so helpless, especially when it came to him.

"I see him all the time! C'mon Nixon. You've been acting like an idiot for too long." 

Only Harry could get away with those kinds of statements without coming off as rude. His joking tone carried an undercurrent of seriousness. He was right. Nixon hated it, but he was right. Nixon sank into his armchair and threw one arms up behind his heard, relaxing back. 

"I'll think about it."

 

* * *

 

 

After another glass of VAT 69, swiftly swallowed, Nixon found himself sat at his computer, typing up his usual email to Liebgott. Their correspondence was pretty regular and usually consisted of shop business inquiries and the flat. He owed him some contact, what with the way he acted during his visit. 

The email was simple, to the point. Satisfyingly average.

Almost laughing at himself at the way his recklessness felt welcome, Nixon added - 'also, can you get in contact with the other guys? I've lost their details. Some crazy fool had this silly idea about getting the band back together.' He sent the email. 

Shutting the laptop, he realised he was grinning. Maybe it was time to be optimistic again.  

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this is such short chapter! It's more of a transitional one. 
> 
> Also I love Harry Welsh.


End file.
